Moustache
by SteveGarbage
Summary: It's the clash of the 'stache. Warden Jean-Marc Stroud takes on Dorian Pavus moustache to moustache. **A short, light-hearted farce for the June Minor Character Challenge "Stroud" at the Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers group on Facebook**


The fifth empty bottle teetered and fell, making a loud crash as it hit the table.

The background noise of the Herald's Rest had dampened significantly, the heat felt like it had been turned way up and the corners of Stroud's vision were blurry whenever he turned his head. But the wine had dulled the noise of darkspawn in his head, too. The constant chattering that was only growing louder day by day was quiet enough that he barely noticed.

But Jean-Marc was doing substantially better than the Tevinter, who was swaying in his seat.

"On my honor as a chevalier of the glorious and infallible Empire of Orlais and Senior Warden of the stoic and dutiful Grey Wardens of Orlais," Stroud said, stumbling over the words as he tried to make the coming declaration sound much more important, "I _demand_ that you take that back."

Stroud shook his finger threateningly at Dorian, the Tevinter man grinning stupidly. The mage might have had years of training to assume leadership of his home and his father's position in the Magisterium, but he had significantly less training on how to hold his liquor.

"I cannot take back the truth," Dorian said, standing up from the table, his legs wobbling as he pushed himself up, clamping his hands to his hips to steady himself. "And the truth is, Ser Stroud, that that frowning black caterpillar above your lip is a stain upon the illustrious history and art of the moustache."

Stroud pushed up from his seat, slamming his hands down on the table, causing the other empty bottles of wine tremble. "How dare you!" he shouted with a feigned anger. "This slight cannot stand!"

Stroud raised his voice even louder, making sure everyone in the Herald's Rest would hear him over the singing of the bard and their own raucous conversations.

" _Magister_ Dorian Pavus, I demand satisfaction. I hereby challenge you to a moustache-off!"

There was a sudden, collective gasp, heads turning toward the center table, although most of their faces were either confused or stifling giggles in the tense moment.

Dorian wiped his mouth with his hand, trying to swallow his own amusement but failing and cracking a very large smile and a quiet chuckle. "You sound incredibly ridiculous, Warden. However, despite your uncouth lip hair, I accept your challenge."

A loud, albeit very confused, cheer erupted through the inn.

* * *

The crowd was much thicker than could be expected for such late-night nonsense.

There were people packed into a close ring at least seven people deep. There certainly weren't this many people in the Herald's Rest before, but now the place was packed.

The three-person panel of judges sat at the table. There had been a brief, but carefully argued negotiation on who would judge the contest. Varric and Hawke were thrown out immediately due to their past association with Stroud, while Iron Bull was tossed due to rumors of alleged amorous encounters between he and Dorian.

Sera was the first unanimous selection. She had volunteered, jumping up and down excitedly shouting various obscenities and insults about what might happen if she wasn't picked. On top of being eager, she was also only sexually interested in women, meaning Dorian's charm would be useless against her.

Cremisius Aclassi was selected as second judge. While unable to grow a moustache of his own, he suggested himself as a neutral party who truly appreciated the style and craft of the moustache. Stroud had considered objecting on the grounds that Krem was both close to Iron Bull and Tevinter, but he had agreed as a compromise between his choice of fellow Warden Blackwall and Dorian's push to draft Inquisitor Trevelyan.

For the third and final judge, they had dragged in Cullen from his office. In truth, no one wanted him, but they could not find a more suitable replacement. They had both originally agreed on Cassandra Pentaghast, but the icy glare the Seeker had shot them when they went to fetch her from the forge both immediately sent them packing for a different candidate.

"Welcome, ladies and gentleman, humans, elves, dwarves and distinguished Qunari guests, to the main event," Varric Tethras began. He had elected himself as emcee of the event and no one had objected to that. "Prepare yourself for the these two fine bellicose combatants of follicle fisticuffs; these tenacious, audacious, vivacious pugilists of hairy faces; as they clash, thrash and crash in the furious spectacle of moustache!"

A rousing cheer roared through the inn as the dwarf breathed deeply to catch his breath after such an extended and unnecessarily wordy introduction.

"On my left, he grew up in the high society of Orlais, forged and battle-tested in the Academie des Chevaliers of Val Royeaux. But the honor and glory of serving Orlais was not enough, oh no, not for this man. A man of his talents could only be sated by facing the vilest, most disgusting, fiercest monsters the world can offer. While his sword fears no man, beast, or darkspawn, he cuts through all in style wearing a very manly and strapping horseshoe moustache. He's proud, he's loud, he's Jean-Marc Stroud!"

Stroud stepped forward, grasping his hands together, shaking them on either side of his head, running his hands across the flowing black moustache that graced his lip and wrapped his mouth as the cheer showed down upon him.

"To my left, this man was born to a powerful, ancient, illustrious house of the Imperium. Groomed from birth as the epitomes of style, beauty and political power, he was certain to make a meteoric rise in the empire's crowded Magisterium. But no, fame and power were not enough. His heart bleeds for his homeland, so many wrongs that need to be righted. Before he could save his homeland, this man needed to travel across all Thedas, setting all the world right before he could claim his rightful position as ruler of man. Men want to be him, women want to bed him, but no one can touch him and his finely tuned handlebar moustache. He empowers us, he wows us, he is the one and only, Dorian Pavus!"

Dorian rolled his hands over and over, bowed deeply to the all corners of the crowd, tossing kisses off his perfectly dainty lips to all around. His smirk crossed his face, his fingertips lightly grabbing the tips of his moustache, placing the perfect curl.

"What am I doing here?" Cullen asked as the cheering died down.

"Quiet, Curly," Varric interjected before continuing on as if nothing happened.

"Our competition will be divided into five different contests, each more daring and difficult than the last…"

* * *

The judges finished tallying their scores.

Stroud was sure he had won the masculinity challenge. The grooming challenge was probably lost, since Dorian's was meticulously gardened. He definitely won the texture challenge of his soft moustache to the oiliness of Dorian's, but likely lost the judging of best representation of type. His moustache was impressive, but the duties of a Warden did not let him keep it as pristinely shaped as it should be.

He expected it would all come down to the kissing contest. While Sera and Cullen had flatly refused the final (and most important, according to Varric) challenge, Krem had agreed to oversee the challenge on behalf of the judges. The feel of the moustache during kissing was paramount, the dwarf insisted, and tickling during lip-lock would result in major loss of score. Dorian looked flustered and while Stroud would have preferred to plant a smooch upon a woman, he had to agree.

"A Warden is sworn to do whatever it takes to stop the Blight," Stroud had announced. "Likewise, I will do whatever it takes to stop this mage's pathetic excuse for a moustache!"

He had slipped Krem a little tongue, giving him a proper taste of the Orlesian-style. He now only hoped the move paid off.

"You're both crazy," Sera said with a daft chuckle as she began the scoring. "Good crazy. Good fun, yeah? Dorian is right though. Ser Shiny Pants is like a frowny caterpillar. Makes your face look all sad and stuff. If a lady has to ride one of those moustaches - and ladies _do_ like moustache rides - they're gonna want to ride Dorian all day and night."

An equal cascade of claps, cheers and boos sounded at the ruling, to which Sera stood up on her chair and began flipping middle fingers to everyone with her tongue firmly stuck between her teeth. She had begun to drop her breeches to give everyone a shine of the moon before Varric was able to calm her down.

Eyes turned to Cullen, who raised his hand slightly off the table. "This was perhaps the most ludicrous event I've ever seen," the Commander said. "But I have to admit, it was a good distraction. My ruling is simple. Ser Stroud has the superior moustache, a symbol of rugged masculinity. Stroud's moustache is like a hardened mabari, while Dorian's is more like a pampered housecat. The horseshoe shouts 'I'm a man!' while the handlebar… well, Ser Stroud wins."

Dorian might have looked offended, but he was already downing another bottle of wine and couldn't help but laugh in between deep gulps. "We'll talk later about _your_ facial hair, Commander. And that puffy collar of yours," Dorian shot back.

Varric stepped before the judge's table, interrupted. "It all comes down to this. Our third and final judge, the tiebreaker. Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi, tells us, please. Who is our champion?"

There was a hush, all eyes upon the Charger. Krem ran his hand across his jaw, looking back and forth between the two contestants, checking the roughly sketched notes hidden behind his other hand on the table.

"Dorian clearly has the better moustache in terms of grooming, styling and care," Krem began.

There was an equal cheer and cry of disappointed before Krem held up both of his hands. "Let me finish! Let me finish!" and the crowd quieted. "Dorian clearly has the advantage in substance. But a moustache is not just about how it looks. It is about _how_ you wear it. Ser Stroud does not need to draw attention, does not need to flaunt his features. His moustache _is._ It is more than just facial hair. It is part of the man himself."

Krem ran his tongue across his lips.

The gamble had paid off.

The day was won.

Stroud's arms were above his head in triumph before he heard the final words confirming his victory, the roar of the Herald's Rest soon drowning out all else.

Upon his face he wore ultimate power.


End file.
